


Her and You and All of It

by LinearA



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hair-pulling, Hate Sex, Kinktober, Kinktober 2018, Roleplay, Somnophilia, but no one is actually asleep so, space virgins with anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-29 06:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16259015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinearA/pseuds/LinearA
Summary: She can't even figure out how to open his tunic.  Decent clothes are obviously a foreign concept.  "Leave it," he snaps."No," she says, stubborn as always.  "You don't get to touch me if I can't touch you; it isn't fair.""You come here, try to stab me in the back, and you want to talk aboutfair?"He's got his hand on her bare stomach now, searching for the waistband of her pants."You'rethe one who made me hope – " and he kisses her again, because he doesn't want to hear about her hopes, which probably involved dragging him to the rebels on a leash; he wants to feel again the way her brain shorts out when his tongue is in her mouth.  That's power; that's what he needs.  He's got his fingers into her pants, scraping at the edge of her curls, when she pushes him away, because she hates him and she doesn't want him to have anything nice.(Several days late on both the hair-pulling and the hate-fucking prompts. Now with a second chapter, for the somnophilia prompt.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My sincere apologies to anyone who is sick of me and the fruits of my struggles with graphomania.

The weapon breaks between them. He is blinded and thrown backwards into black unconsciousness.

The first thing he feels when he wakes up is that the room is full of death. Enemies overthrown. Victories. And there among them, one little life. One treacherous, heartless, hateful little life, which had pretended to care about him. 

He gets to his feet. Rey lies still. He stares at her.

The door opens and Hux strides in, mewling or barking or whatever it is Hux does when he tries to talk. Kylo shoves him out with a gesture and locks the door. Then he takes his saber to the mechanism. No override code can make it open now.

He turns again to the girl on the floor. Her face is bruising, and there's blood on her arm. He should kill her. His eyes stay on her wounded arm.

He gathers up all the weapons left in the room and methodically breaks them; she will not get another chance to kill him. The one which was already broken, the cloven lightsaber, he tucks into an inner pocket of his tunic. It's too big to fit comfortably; it jabs into his skin. He doesn't care. 

He clears the pieces of Snoke's body from the throne and considers whether he ought to be sitting on it when she comes to, if that might make her sorry for what she's done. He doubts it. He doubts, looking at her sweet face, remembering it raised to his, that she has ever been sorry for anything she's done in her miserable life. He stands over her – how repulsive she is, to be so serene, when every move he makes is rotted away with doubt in its aftermath.

Her eyes open. He watches her remember where she is and what happened. Watches her focus on his black boots. Reminds himself that she can't get out and waits impassively as she scrambles to her feet. He wants to see her scratch and pound at the door, wants to see her cast about her for a weapon and find only fragments.

But she doesn't run for the door; she runs for the monitors. They show her nothing but empty stars and the horizon of the planet Crait. She whirls back to him. "Are they all dead?" she demands.

"I imagine so." He would have felt it, he thinks, if his mother were really dead, but he sees no reason to encourage her.

"How _could_ you?" she shouts.

"How could _you?"_ he shouts back. "You were supposed to stand with me! Be on my side!"

"Your side? Ben, there's an entire galaxy out there! Millions of people!" Any trace of pleading in her voice vanishes. "And you only care about your own power!"

"You think you care about those people – you don't even know them! They're cruel and stupid and – I thought you understood!"

"Understood what? That you deserve to rule the galaxy?"

He turns away, shoves his fist into his mouth, and screams.

"What did you think was going to happen?" she shouts at his back. "I'd join you and be, what, one of your generals? Do for you what you did for Snoke?"

He digs his teeth into the leather of his glove. He can't stand to look at her wretched, righteous face. "With me, I said. Rule with me."

It isn't quite a touch, what he feels in the Force. It's more as if she'd leaned in and smelled his neck, so intimate and so infuriating, even before she says flatly, "Your Empress."

He hates how close it is to the surface of his mind. The image he had held throughout the fight, that even now comes back to him, and back again after he shoves it away, of lifting her onto the throne and pressing her into it with a kiss as her knees close around his hips, drawing him close.

 _"Empress,"_ he spits scornfully. He turns back to her, sneering, "Concubine." The lie is transparent and he knows it, but he says it to insult her, not to make her believe him. She'll never believe him; obviously she never has.

"You... _wanted_ me," she says, as if desiring her were some sort of revolting crime. Certainly he wishes now he were above it.

He looks down his nose at her. He has few other choices; she's practically standing on his toes. "You wanted _me._ I felt it. Even before we touched hands."

She gasps in outrage. He returns the favor, then, of her intrusion into his mental space; he drops his head, speaks into her ear. "Don't. Lie." She growls; it's delicious; he hates it. "You've done enough lying."

She kisses him, so violently that when it turns into a bite halfway through he almost doesn't notice. He staggers back, his hand to his mouth. "Monster!" she howls. She has his blood on her lips and a furious snarl on her face.

"You _animal,"_ he shouts, "you ought to be put down!" And he has fought and killed so much today; he seizes her by the hair and pulls her against him, exposing her soft naked throat. Her back is arched and the roundness of her small breasts is visible even through her obscuring clothes; he takes one in his hand and squeezes and the soft give of it thrills him so much he might as well have squeezed his own cock. Which is hard in his pants and has been since she growled at him.

She squeals as he gropes her; she really is an animal. He can't believe he thought – and the picture in his head intrudes again, of Rey on the throne, looking at him with warmth and understanding, pulling him to her – he hates her.

"I'm going to kill you," she hisses. "You think you can rule the galaxy?" She grabs his hand, fumbling. "Take off your stupid gloves." And he lets her peel his glove off, because one less layer between him and her little tit will be better, is better, as he pushes under her wrap; his hand clenches in her hair as her body grinds against his. "I _will_ defeat you," she promises him savagely.

"Not if I destroy you first," he says, and kisses her properly. She's probably never been kissed before, the feral thing; she doesn't know any better than him so he has to be the best she's ever had; he has to be. She whimpers into his mouth and rakes her hands over his tunic. He can barely feel it through the padding. But oh, he feels her hatred and her hunger and the way his passions pour into her mind and overflow into the Force around them. He lets her mouth go to bite her neck and she breathes as if she's drowning. He's going to murder her. He needs to get his hand between her legs.

She can't even figure out how to open his tunic. Decent clothes are obviously a foreign concept. "Leave it," he snaps.

"No," she says, stubborn as always. "You don't get to touch me if I can't touch you; it isn't fair."

"You come here, try to stab me in the back, and you want to talk about _fair?"_ He's got his hand on her bare stomach now, searching for the waistband of her pants.

 _"You're_ the one who made me hope – " and he kisses her again, because he doesn't want to hear about her hopes, which probably involved dragging him to the rebels on a leash; he wants to feel again the way her brain shorts out when his tongue is in her mouth. That's power; that's what he needs. He's got his fingers into her pants, scraping at the edge of her curls, when she pushes him away, because she hates him and she doesn't want him to have anything nice.

"You take off your clothes and I'll take off mine," she says. He wouldn't trust her to carry through on any deal, of course, but when her hands drop to her belt and she starts to undo it, he supposes she might hold to it if he keeps his eyes on her. He folds his tunic so she can't see the shattered saber. And she does, for once, play fair – _how could he ever have expected her to play fair, the woman who consorted with a traitor and attacked him when he was wounded and told him he wasn't alone_ – she strips herself bare, except for the linen bound around her arms, but fine, he won't take his vambraces off either, though as he drags her back to him by her cloth-covered forearm he rubs the thumb of his other hand briefly over the inside of her upper arm, just to see what it would feel like if he could get them off her.

Her nakedness excites him so much it almost paralyzes him when she’s there against him; she’s like a pornographic holo he can touch, and he wants to do to her all the things he’s seen in pornographic holos, every single one. But he needs to touch her; he needs her to be wet. He reaches for her and she twists her hips away from him. “Aren’t you going to pull my hair again?” she asks, and yes, yes he is.

Her hair is sweaty and barely long enough to wrap around his heavy hand. His fingertips scrape at her scalp and he tugs her backwards so that her breasts are offered up to him, and now it’s her feelings that are burning in his skull, as he bends and first his hair and then his tongue brushes across her skin. She arches further, of her own volition, pushing her nipples up towards his mouth. He hardens his grip to hold her there, make sure she won’t try to yank this away from him too, and seals his lips over one pink bead. He slides his tongue over it and she shudders.

He puts his hand to her curls again – she has to be wet for him, she must be – but then she puts one hand on his cock and strokes, and he writhes and bucks against her. It’s nothing like his own hand; hers is smaller and the callouses in different places and the coolness of it makes him feel like he’s burning. She pumps him slowly and much, much too gently, and her other hand reaches out and finds the scar she left across him. Of course she’d mock him like this, trace the wound she left, gloat about how she cut him down, while he almost whimpers as her hand finds its way from the end of the scar to his nipple.

“Don’t,” he grunts, and drags her back, out to arms length. He looks at her; all her skin is flushed and she shines with sweat. Yes. Good. He pulls her back a little closer, and runs his hand down her trembling stomach, through her little patch of hair, and down between her thighs. He thinks for a terrible second that she isn’t wet after all, that she’s tricked him again, made him show her how badly he wants her without wanting him at all. But then his fingers slide into the folds of her flesh and they really do slide; she soaks his fingers, warm and slippery as he strokes her.

“Oh,” she says, her voice high and breathless, “oh, Ben. Oh. Ah.” He has her.

“I’ll destroy you,” he tells her between his teeth. This is what he wants; he wants to reduce her to trembles and wordless gasps, too drunk on his body to even think of betraying him. “You want me. When I’m done with you you won’t want anything else. Not anything, not anyone.” He drives two fingers into her; her thighs spread wider as she tries to stretch to take it and he sees his fingers going into her, how big his fingers look as they slide into her tight body. He yanks on her hair, pulls her closer to him. “You want my cock in there?”

She just whimpers. He takes his dripping fingers out of her and smears them across her lips, then kisses her wet and shining mouth. He wants to come in her mouth, on her face, on her tits, inside her as deep as he can go. His head boils with everything he wants to do; he can’t find his way out. Maybe she’s pushing him, trying to trap him in his own mind so he can’t see what he’s doing to her. But he’ll see, and he won’t need to read her mind to do it.

He puts his fingers back inside her, loosens his grip on her hair a little to tease the back of her neck with his thumb. “I think you do. You want me but you know you’ll come apart for me. I’ll break you into pieces.”

“You can’t.” She bares her teeth at him. He wants to fuck that lovely, furious mouth, but she’s so hot and wet on his fingers; he has to get himself inside her. “I want you to fuck me as hard as you can, Ben,” she says, “but don’t think you can _win.”_

He lets her hair go and pulls her to the floor with him by her hips. She puts herself on her hands and knees, like a beast, but he rolls her over. “I want to see your dirty face when I break you,” he tells her, and she has the enraging gall to _roll her eyes_ as he presses her legs back and apart.

“I’ll show you,” he hisses. “I’ll show you.” And then he pushes himself into her. She moans, but he almost doesn’t hear her; he has never in his life felt anything as good as this. He thrusts into her again, and she wraps her legs around him. She likes it; she wants him inside her. And he can feel her desire like he can smell her sweat; the air around him tastes like Rey and what she feels, which is pleasure, and what she wants from him, which is _more._ He gives it to her; he flexes his hips and rams himself in, over and over. 

“You think you can destroy me? Make me come apart for you?” she challenges him, panting, and he can’t speak anymore but he can slam himself into her harder, he can fuck her like he’s killing something. He fucks her until she screams, but it isn’t all he wants, and then he feels her fingers in his hair, stroking and then grabbing, pulling, and she clenches on his cock like a fist. “Come for me, Ben,” she orders him, and he has to; he can’t help it; she’s so tight and the pain in his scalp is so sweet. She’s breathing in his pleasure like he’s breathing in hers, and when he comes, she comes too, and he thinks of the moment the lightsaber broke under their power and threw them apart. The light in his head is blinding like that, but he falls towards her, not away.

He becomes aware that she’s stroking his head. He pushes himself harder against her, crushing his nose against her skin. He can only imagine how smug she must be. He can’t get up. He can barely move his head, let alone an entire arm. But if he stays here inside her long enough, he thinks, they can do this again. And next time – next time – 

He falls asleep. He dreams of her seated on the throne, naked and smiling in triumph. She reaches for him. He goes to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case, I don't know, you liked the hate-fucking chapter and were like, "But could you make it softer? But also kind of creepy? And maybe sad?"

He wakes up before her again. It surprises him a little, since he’d think scavengers would have to rise early and sleep lightly, but maybe he can take the credit. He’s fucked her into a good night’s rest.

Not that it’s been a night. Or so he would imagine. He wonders when Hux will send someone to cut through the door. Perhaps never.

He’s not inside her anymore; he’s moved down her in his sleep to rest against Rey’s breast. He shifts his head as it moves softly with her breathing, and looks up at her face. Her lips are just a little parted; she sighs a little with every exhalation. Her hand is draped lightly over his shoulder. Her breast is soft against his face, and she _looks_ soft, sleeping like that.

It’s not possible to use the Force to read an unconscious person’s mind. If it were, he’d never have had to exchange words with anyone he’s interrogated. Including her. A waking mind, connected to the Force through its perceptions, is a safe he can crack and rifle through. Rey, sleeping, is only two things in the Force: _Human. Alive._

And it suddenly occurs to him that this is how many people see each other, all the time. That his father – there being literal vegetables more sensitive to the Force than Han Solo – had looked at his sleeping mother and seen only what he sees now when he looks at Rey. _Human. Alive._

How little to know about someone, just what senses can tell. He can feel her beneath him; when he shifts he can feel the rough skin of her hand scrape his shoulder. He can hear her breath, can, when he drops his ear back down to her chest, hear her heart. He can smell her sweat, her blood, the fucking he gave her. That she gave him.

He can see her. She’s beautiful. She looks so beautiful and kind, like she would never hurt him, never even want to.

How little to know about someone. He doesn’t want to know more.

He turns his head and kisses her breast. Her skin is very smooth here. He nuzzles against her, inhaling her, rubbing his stubble against the grain. She stirs. He feels her hand shift on his shoulder, and she’s awake, her mind a safe that he could crack and find all her cruel and perfidious thoughts inside, and he doesn’t even think, he just begs. “No. Please don’t wake up. Just for a little while.” 

His voice is a hoarse, shameful croak. He shuts his eyes, holds his breath, and does not reach for her in the Force or taste her feelings in the air; he seals himself in his own mind, while she stiffens for a moment. He can hear her open her mouth, hear her draw a breath to speak, and he squeezes his eyes closed tighter.

And then she breathes out softly and softens her body against his. He breathes out too, and opens his eyes to see that hers have fluttered closed. She’s still there, awake, knowable in the Force, the woman who tried to kill him, but he can stop himself from looking. He can pretend not to know. If she can lie to herself, tell herself that he is wrong about everything, then he can tell himself she's asleep and means him no harm. Just for a little while. 

If she weren’t treacherous, if she’d taken his hand and come to him as she’d made him believe she would, there would be nights, wouldn’t there, where he would come back to her from somewhere far away, and find her sleeping, exhausted from her own work in bringing order to the galaxy? She would be naked in their bed, waiting for him, just like this. And he would take off his own clothes and come to her, and kiss her skin, as he does now, softly, up her breastbone to the dip in her throat. He laps at the tan, sweat-salty skin beneath her ear and feels her pulse. _Human. Alive._

She shivers a little, but she’d do that, wouldn’t she, the tired empress in her bed? Her day was full of conquest and command, of weaker creatures quailing from the fierce spark in her eyes as she bent their systems to her will. She’d welcome the touch of her equal, her match. Her man. He takes her unresisting arm and moves it around his neck. She’d pull him close, gently, knowing he was tired too.

He brushes his lips across her slightly-open mouth. They would be gentle with each other sometimes, wouldn’t they? Her mouth would be still, and he could put his own against it lightly, as he does now, and be secure, knowing she wouldn’t bite him. He does it again. Perhaps he would wake up before her every morning, and he would kiss her like this. 

If she weren’t determined to betray him in the name of a dead ideal – and he can pretend she isn’t, pretend he doesn’t know she is, as long as she’s asleep, as long as they both agree she’s asleep – he’d kiss her all the time, and everywhere. He lifts himself a little off her, looking down at her. She lies still, unarmed, offering no threat.

He kisses her over her heart. At the place where her ribs part. Just above her navel, and just under it. He touches the indentation in her stomach with a finger, then glides over it with his tongue. She shivers again. He rubs his hands up and down her sides to warm her, and moves lower on her body.

He hadn’t really been able to look at her properly before. It would have been too dangerous, to simply observe, while she was awake and working against him. But now he can look. He runs his fingers through the hair between her legs, petting her fur, following the edge of her. He limns her outer lips, and then her inner ones. He looks at the place he had only felt her rub against his hand, the little pearl in its little hood, and below, the way into the center of her, pinker even than her mouth, and swollen – sore, he thinks. 

If she weren't determined to make herself his enemy, he would feel sorry. He would feel, alongside his savage pleasure in how obvious it is that she's been fucked hard and filled with come – drops of it are visible, seeping down her – regret that when she wakes and tries to move, she will ache. He wouldn't want her to be sorry that she'd had him, even if he still might feel a little proud of the mess they've made, with her coming for him so wet and hot and him giving it to her so hard and so deep. He would feel so many things, looking at her like this, if he didn't despise her for her treachery and weakness. It almost makes him tremble, to think of what he might feel, and he drops his head and licks her. 

Her whole body jerks. "Shhh," he says, against her thigh, "shhh, go – go back to sleep." And her legs ease back down and her breathing slows, but there's a tremor in the muscles of her stomach. He closes his eyes to it, as he's closed his mind to her feelings in the Force, and he licks her again. 

He tasted her before, on her own lips where he'd smeared her wetness, but she tastes different here, and there's the taste of him on her too. And if she did not revile him for his unwillingness to live in the lies of the past, if she had taken his hand, if he did not hate her with his whole soul for not taking it, he thinks, he would taste this again. He would want to lick her clean and feel her twitch against his tongue, and taste it often, like proof that they were with each other. And not alone, as he is and now will always be. 

But because it's not true, because he's only pretending, this is the only time he'll taste it, and so he savors it. He licks and licks, dragging his tongue across her slick flesh, and she struggles to keep still; he wraps his arms around her legs and pushes them up around his ears, holding them there. It hurts his neck, the angle, but it muffles the sounds she can't quite suppress. And when the spasm of her pleasure can't be contained, and neither of them can pretend she's still asleep, he finds himself hard and desperate and so he opens his mouth to beg, and shuts it, hating himself; will he never stop begging?

He's about to push her away, drag his heavy clothes over his unsatisfied body – he's done it before and will again – when Rey’s hands reach to him, their gentle grasping its own sort of plea, and she even says, aloud, "Please, Ben; please don't stop. Please don't go away."

And since she does that, now they're even; she's begged too; he's not the only suppliant here, and so he opens his mouth and chokes it out, what he needs from her: "Pretend. Pretend – you're my empress. Pretend you love me."

She gives in; miraculously, for once in her life, she surrenders, gives in and plays along, pulling him to her, crying, "I do, Ben; I do love you," and so he can kiss her just like he would if it were true. She even puts her arms around his neck, gently as if she didn’t want to hurt him, and then harder, as if she wanted to keep him safe. And he keeps himself blind in the Force, makes himself read her only with his senses, which lie to him as the Force cannot; his senses tell him that she licks along his skin as if she delighted in the taste of him, and presses kisses to every part of him she can reach as if they were presents she hoped he’d accept, and that when he pulls a little back from her, her eyes are full of longing. 

He rubs himself against her; if they loved each other, he wouldn’t fuck her if she were sore, if it would really hurt her. They would find another thing to do. But she spreads her legs further for him, and he asks her, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, “please, please,” and he kisses her frantically on her neck and breasts, because she lets him pretend so well. This is just how it would go, isn’t it? He’d come to her late; she’d be sleeping; he’d wake her with kisses and his mouth between her legs, and then she’d open her knees and beg for him. He presses himself into her slowly. Before he’d been consumed by how tight she was, and how wet, but this time what he feels most is the _softness_ of her; she’s tight as a fist but softer and smoother than any fabric ever made. He moves himself softly within her, and she sighs and reaches up to brush his hair out of his eyes. Oh, she pretends so well.

He rocks into her a little more insistently. “We’d take care of each other, wouldn’t we?” he asks her, aloud, without really meaning to, but she answers him earnestly.

“Always, Ben. Always.”

“Like fighting back-to-back, but all the time.”

“In everything,” she promises. “I’d never make you stand alone.”

“And if I had to leave you. I’d come back. Like this. I’d come back just like this.”

“Yes. Straight to my arms. Just like this. Just. Just. Just like this.” She clings to him as she comes, with a sound like a sob, burying her freckled little face in his shoulder, and he thinks, as he moves through the unbearable pleasure of it, _always, always means always means never not like this, no more nights not like this,_ and he comes, not with a blinding light like before, but in a tumult like a waterfall, buffeted by a thousand feelings he doesn’t have and never will.

It tumbles him so furiously he hardly knows where he is when he feels her fingers moving across his face and sweeping lightly below his eye. She is wiping his tears.

He takes a deep breath and prepares to reach outside his own mind, to perceive as he usually does, in contact with the Force. He prepares himself to feel her scorn, her condescension. He’s a little boy who begged her to play-pretend with him, and wept when it was over. He’ll let himself see how much she hates him, how little she cares, and then he’ll show her how much he hates her and how little he cares, and then he’ll kill her. And go on alone.

He will. Any moment now. He’ll do it. Just as soon as she stops pretending, he’ll stop too. But she doesn’t stop. She looks up at him with big brave eyes and he thinks again of how it would be to be a man like his father, who could look at the woman he loved and know no more for certain than: _Human. Alive._

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr: [LinearLA](https://linearla.tumblr.com/)


End file.
